


Moonset Interludes

by yonderlight



Series: Blood Moon [3]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Blakefield, Canon Era, Childhood Memories, Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, POV Blake, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Werewolf!Blake, Werewolf/Vampire AU, World War I, vampire!schofield
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26878030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yonderlight/pseuds/yonderlight
Summary: Tom's awareness creeps in slowly, achingly smothered by that raw-nerve, wrung-out feeling that always accompanied shifting...A bit of a prequel and an epilogue of sortsThese werewolf!Blake ficlets will only make sense if you’ve read my originalficin the Blood Moon AU!
Relationships: Joseph Blake & Tom Blake, Tom Blake & William Schofield, Tom Blake/William Schofield
Series: Blood Moon [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818862
Comments: 15
Kudos: 21





	Moonset Interludes

**1907**

“Oh, Tom…”

_Daybreak…_

Tom hears his mother’s exasperated sigh long before he can bring himself to pry open his eyes.

He peers up at her now towering over him, a somber silhouette set against pale streaks of dawn. She pulls a cream-coloured shawl tighter around her shoulders underneath wild, unplaited hair that cascades down her back. Her appearance is in complete disarray, covered in dirt and reeking of the moon night, just as he is, with her mouth affixed in a thin line as she surveys the remains of her herb and flower garden.

Tom dismally looks around to find himself at the epicenter of destruction.

It’s a dreadful sight; not a single flower has been spared from mutilation, and large holes with heaps of upturned dirt and roots lie scattered about the small plot. Petals litter the ground in colourful splotches, ruthlessly torn asunder from their stems.

“What’s all this, then?” Gazing down upon the flora ruin, an equally dirty Joe trots up to join their mother, his mussed hair backlit from the rising sun.

Tom starts to cry.

“Shhhh, shush now, it’s alright dear one, don’t fret. They’re only plants after all,” his mother chuckles. Wrapping a blanket around Tom, she helps him to his feet and holds him close as he strains to remember his activities from the previous night. They come back to him in bright, shameful flashes of emotion- the frantic energy of _frustration, seclusion_ , and _boredom_ ringing out in his head like manic aftershocks.

_What have I done?_

“See mum I _told_ you, we can’t leave him alone anymore. He just wants to come with us, is all,” Joe gestures to Tom.

“He’s still far too young to hunt! And I won’t hear another word otherwise.”

Still sniffling, Tom miserably shuffles alongside his mother back towards the house, flinching as he steps barefoot on a thorny vine. He casts another forlorn glance at her destroyed flowerbed, thinking only of his mother’s prior excitement at the new spring blossoms after toiling away in the garden these past few months.

“I’m sorry, mum,” Tom later whispers glumly at the kitchen table while he watches her cook. Now wrapped in her satin yellow robe, she hums to herself as she prepares bacon over the stove. It was one of her post-moon night routines, ‘breakfast before bath and bed’ as she was oft to say. Joe, meanwhile, is already dozing in the seat next to Tom, his head leaning heavily against his hand.

Pausing to wipe her hands on a dishtowel, she turns around to look at him. “Oh, pish posh, you needn’t apologize.”

Tom shamefully gazes out the window, “But I did this. It was _me_.”

“Well, it was you but it wasn’t, you understand Tommy?”

He shakes his head, lip trembling, “Mildred said we’re hell bound. Her papa told me we’re hounds of Satan and that the devil makes his home inside us on the full moon.”

Eyes flashing, his mother points her spatula at him, “Mildred’s father is a loathsome man who is overly fond of the bottle and laying a hand on his poor wife so you best not be listening to a damn word out of that bastard’s mouth.”

She softens suddenly, seeing tears pricking at his eyes, and then walks over to the table with a sigh.

Crouching down near Tom’s chair, she takes his hand and runs her fingers through his gritty hair. “Pay them no heed, Tommy. They simply don’t understand our kind, nor do they try to.”

“But I _am_ wicked! I ruined your garden,” the tears burst forth again and Tom hastily drags a grubby hand across his face.

“Shhhh.” Wiping his eyes with her sleeve, his mother speaks softly, “Now, suppose the carnival was in town and Joe and meself went together and left you here. Would you be upset? Would you be cross with us?” He nods tearfully. “Well, would you go on and destroy Joe’s things? Or go on a rampage with all the trinkets in my bedroom?” Tom shakes his head from side to side. “Why is that?”

“Because…because it’s wrong.”

“Right. And this morning, you’re whole and complete. You’re my sweet, kind-hearted Tommy,” she stops to tickle his stomach, “but you can’t stop yourself from feeling those emotions, can you? Even if you don’t act on them?”

Tom hums, nodding.

“Well…last night,” she looks up toward the ceiling, carefully choosing her words, “you won’t always be able to hear that voice that tells you it’s wrong. Because, _hmm_ … because you won’t always _remember_ it’s wrong, or rather, sometimes it’s drowned out by something more loud and powerful like…survival.”

He sniffs loudly, trying to make sense of what she was saying.

She rubs the back of his hand and tries a different approach, “Do recall when Myrtle chewed Joe’s new shoes last week? Do you think little Myrtle was intentionally trying to hurt his feelings, or that she knew it was wrong to do such a thing?”

“No, mother.”

“Poor thing was merely bored and restless and didn’t know any better. So there you have it. Do you understand now?” She pulls him close against her, reaching around to ruffle his hair. And in that exact moment, a thunderous snore erupts from Joe, prompting Tom and his mother’s combined laughter to fill the entire kitchen and living room.

Joe’s still sound asleep when she places two steaming plates in front of her boys. And as bright sunlight streams in through panes of glass to cast sharp rectangles across the wooden table, Tom simultaneously chews on both his bacon fat and on his mother’s words.

**1912**

Click _._

Feeling the last of his tremors recede, the sudden cold press of a gun barrel was sharp and angry against the back of Tom’s head.

“You’ve got ten seconds to get your thieving dog carcass off my property or I’ll blast you to bloody kingdom come.”

The wolf in Tom, a shadowy presence not yet fully vanquished by the feeble sunlight and still bleeding through his muddled thoughts, wants to make himself small. He wants to stay low to the ground and roll over onto his backside, signaling to his aggressor, _I’m not here to confront you, I mean you no harm_. But Tom desperately clamps down on that impulse and carefully rises to his full height instead. Raising his palms skyward, he slowly turns around.

“Just…take it easy-”

“One,” the man readjusts his grip on the rifle, looking menacingly into Tom’s eyes.

“Alright! Alright, I’m going!”

“Two.”

Heart racing, Tom takes quick stock of his surroundings as he tries to get away, tripping barefooted over a feed bucket on the ground. He spies long slashes gorged into the wood of the nearby chicken coop, its door ripped entirely off its hinges. There’s a god-awful mess of feathers and dark blood splatters strewn about, and a couple of disemboweled hens near his feet. _Damn. Damn. Damn-_

“Three.”

“I’m sorry! Let me pay for the damages! _Please_!”

“I don’t want your bleeding money, dog. And don’t come back. Now get _the fuck_ off my land.”

Tom stumbles backwards, sending several squawking chickens scattering in all directions.

“ _Four_.”

“Bloody hell, I’m _going_! Just let me leave!” He spins around when his back harshly collides with the fence door. After fumbling awkwardly with the latch, he then promptly sprints across tall grass towards the sanctuary of the nearby forest.

Catching his breath behind a tree, Tom swears to himself while cautiously peering around the trunk. He finally allows himself to exhale as he watches the man tend to his escaped fowl, his firearm now lying discarded in the dirt.

Looking about, Tom finds he’s in an unfamiliar stretch of woods. He soon catches wind of Joe’s scent, however, and heads in that direction.

A few metres away, Joe reveals himself crouched between two shrubs, retching into the underbrush. Blinking up groggily at Tom, he gratefully accepts his hand as Tom hauls him to his feet.

Joe squints, “I was wondering where you’d gone off to.”

“You bastard, you left me to fend for myself!” Tom gives Joe a light shove as soon as he’s standing.

Joe shoves him back, “Jesus, I thought you were right behind me! What’s happened, then?”

Tom sighs and points a thumb back the way he came, “The old geezer wanted his pound of flesh for them hens we ate.”

“ _Balls_ ,” Joe whistles through his teeth. He frowns, thinking, “Well, I wanted no part of it, I did, but you were dead set on getting at them poor chickens and it’s my job to keep you out of trouble.”

“That so?” Tom reaches out to pluck an incriminating stray feather caught in Joe’s hair. “I seem to recall that _you_ were the one who wanted to investigate.”

“Don’t be spiky, you should have had the good sense to leave when I did!”

“I was only following you in the first place!”

Tackling Joe, Tom tries to pin him into a headlock, but his weak attempt merely results in the two of them tiredly collapsing back to the ground.

They lean against each other side-by-side for a few moments, lazily taking in the smells and sounds of the stirring forest.

In the golden morning mist, Tom’s eyes track a field mouse scampering through the tunnel of a hollow tree limb while his ears pick up the threatening screech of a nearby hawk. His nose alerts him that a male fox had recently traveled through this very spot not long before the sun began its vertical journey above the dewy horizon.

“We shouldn’t be out this far. Too close to other people,” Joe finally remarks solemnly, looking out towards the direction of the farmhouse.

Tom nods, “You reckon we’re past the western woods? I wonder where Mum is…” He searches through hazy memories, now warped and disjointed in the daylight, and comes to the conclusion that they must have left her behind some time ago.

Joe rises, “Well, come on then. Heaven knows how long it’ll take us to get back.” It’s Joe’s turn to pull Tom upright on his feet.

Tom groans dramatically, thumping his forehead against Joe’s shoulder in a playful head-butt.

“Hey, you think Mum will make us scrambled eggs this morning?”

**1917**

“Come back to me.”

_Scho…_

It’s not often Blake’s awarded the luxury of a gentle awakening in France post-moon night.

Most bleary mornings his awareness creeps in slowly, achingly smothered by that raw-nerve, wrung-out feeling that always accompanied shifting.

Still trembling, Blake blindly reaches out for Scho when his human thoughts surface at last. It’s simply habit now, the very first thing Blake reaches for after the moonlight withers away, retreating along its orbital path. He feels a bit like a celestial body himself, adrift and cold, until he senses Scho’s pull and circles around that steadying gravity.

“Here I am.” Blake crawls into Scho’s open arms to the place where he’s seated on the ground and leaning back against a wooden beam.

No matter how bleak his surroundings are in the daybreak, Schofield is a welcome comfort. Blake clings to Scho amidst whatever leftover horrors he often finds himself recoiling from, exposed by the wretched evidence of violence that has dried underneath his fingernails or lies dismembered beside him. Scho is there when Blake is still gripped in the suffocating throes of animal fear, nauseatingly overwhelmed by the uncanny burden of death, or when he awakens to a throat hoarse from lonely howling, desperate cries meant for his mother and brother and the rest of their pack.

Most days there’s a piece of Blake that feels shriveled and wane, one that is endlessly deprived and starving, a part that feels like it will never be able to fully heal itself regardless of how many nights he puts behind him.

But this morning was different. The two of them have spent the prior full moon in an abandoned barn, insulated and billeted among warm and dusty hay. Fatigued from marching for many miles, Blake spent a drowsy moon night in the mollifying company of Schofield and far removed from No Man’s Land. It was a rare treat granted by the brass hats who selected this particular night to shelter their troops after a long day of traveling.

Blake relishes in the soothing afterglow of huddling close to his person, to _Scho_ , a sensation of contentment that carries over in his mind after dawn breaks and the change takes hold of him.

Settling back down beside Schofield now, Blake rests his head against Scho’s chest, who then leans down to nuzzle into the crook of Blake’s neck before planting a gentle kiss atop his forehead.

_What did I do to deserve such tenderness?_

Combing through Blake’s hair, Scho’s fingers delicately continue downward, trailing a path along his spine and over the ridges of his vertebrae.

It should be alarming, the sway that Scho has over him, how Blake is invigorated by a mere gaze, a touch, a smile…

“Penny for your thoughts, Lance Corporal?” Blake sighs as Scho slides his other arm around Blake’s waist.

Blinking slowly underneath long eyelashes, Scho subtly smiles. “I was simply thinking how lucky I am to have you, to not endure all of this alone.”

“Luck? I’d be hard-pressed to find much of that ‘round here. Them ‘bouts of unluckiness seem to be going around for blokes like us. Besides, you’re better off being saddled with someone who still has their wits about them after the sun goes down,” Blake says with a twinge of bitterness.

“You’re no burden to me. Bloody difficult, certainly, but I suppose I’ve figured out how to properly handle you now,” Scho teases gently, idly tracing a hand up and down Blake’s thigh.

Too tired to conjure up a witty retort, Blake wordlessly nestles closer. He wants to ask which part of himself Schofield is referring to, the man in the sunlight or the one that awakens at night, but the question dies on his tongue. Perhaps they’re one and the same when all’s said and done… But nevertheless Scho would be there, come moonrise or sunrise, a lifeboat patiently waiting to ferry him away from the wreckage and back to that grounding shore.

“I am too, you know,” Blake asserts after a long moment.

Scho looks at him curiously.

“Lucky to have you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Endless thanks to the incredible @ealasaid for beta-ing this fic and for constantly being so kind and supportive!  
> It was wonderful to step into this world and write again, and I hope people enjoy reading these little scenes that I couldn't get out of my head <3


End file.
